


Tumblr Drabbles

by blindbatalex



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Gen, M/M, also can't believe i was the first one on the carrick/de gea tag??, am i the only person who ships this?, i have random, now updated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-19 23:06:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11323605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blindbatalex/pseuds/blindbatalex
Summary: Drabbles from tumblr; mostly Carraville, also includes some of my United writing and other random stuff





	1. carraville + kiss me

**Author's Note:**

> Friends, find me on [tumblr](https://blindbatalex.tumblr.com/) \-- I'm here to take prompts, cry over carraville, (or carra) or United, or as my mutuals will tell you with a shake of their heads to come up with crack ships and write stuff for teams that are most definitely not my own, anything really :D

Jamie lies with his side pressed firmly against Gary. The grass feels cool under his skin, a lovely contrast to the warmth emanating from Gary next to him. Individual blades of grass press into his neck and bare arms, making themselves known, like a rough but soft carpet. A breeze blows from the sea and carries with it the faint smell of seaweed and sand, and the distant sound of waves crashing onto the shore. It’s the picturesque kind of sea too, not gray and windy like Jamie is used to, but the kind that glimmers in such a perfect, impossible shade of blue under the sun that it’s as if it comes alive with it. Jamie really doesn’t understand how Gary took one look at it and compared it to the Manchester City jerseys with a scowl on his face.

Speaking of, next to him Gary is monologuing about – adopting dogs now. Reserved is never a word Jamie would use for Gary, not even back when they were playing but it’s remarkable the difference half a bottle wine makes. Jamie cocks his head a bit to the side to pay attention to what Gary is saying, not that it seems to make much difference to Gary.  
“–important to give older dogs a second chance, can we really morally justify paying for a puppy when there are so many dogs looking for a home already but on the other hand we could have a Corgi, J–”

Jamie doesn’t need to see to know the goofy smile that is spreading across Gary’s lips right about now. He smiles back in return, fond, but also grateful that he took that job at Sky right out of retirement, that Gary was there, that they finally found the courage.

“–we could have a Corgi puppy, or two because she’d need a friend wouldn’t she and they’d have tiny paws and curl up with us on the–”

Because really if Jamie gets to be here, next to his man with wine buzzing through his veins and more stars visible in the night sky than he can count– if he gets to be here, away from England and the tabloid press they need to tiptoe around and on a break from the hassle of a busy season. And if he gets to wake up in the morning and debate whether it’s justifiable to pay for two adorable Corgi puppies, Jamie doesn’t know if life gets better than that.

Well maybe there is just one way it can.

“Gary,” he says, and Gary stops mid-sentence and turns to look at him so Jamie can feel his breath on his face, “come here and kiss me.”


	2. carraville + magical tomatoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein the neighboring kingdoms of Liverpudlia and Mancunia were known across the land for their red flags, brave people and their fierce rivalry…over prize tomatoes. Until a drought and a suspected spell ravaged the tomato crops in both kingdoms and forced the rulers to call their best wizards out of retirement and send them in search of a way to break the spell. 
> 
> This is...utter crack and came about as part of a made up fic title game when I was jetlagged and very very tired. See [here](https://blindbatalex.tumblr.com/post/161219221186/for-the-made-up-fic-title-thingy-kings-and) for more world building? Also though I'd love to play around in this AU more so if you have ideas hmu peeps!

They are travelling on a dinghy little boat in the middle of a magical lake deep in Mancunian mountains one day, the boat and everything else around them shrouded in a dense fog. Sir Carragher doesn’t like it. “There is something sinister about this place, Sir Neville,” he tells the other wizard, wondering for a brief moment what Sir Neville’s first name would taste like in his mouth. 

_Gareth_

The stray thought itself–Sir Neville is a fine wizard, he has come to admit, hardworking and dedicated, but he is still a Manc–is testament to the lake’s evil powers. 

“Yes that’s because you think there is something sinister about everything in Mancunia.” Sir Neville rolls his eyes. They gleam dark brown in what little light makes it through the fog. Sir Carragher huffs and forces his mind to turn away from contemplating the mysteries that lie hidden in Sir Neville’s intricate irises and back to the quest at hand again. What tomatoes can grow on an island in such a harsh environment is still beyond him and the lake still feels…off.

The day in the end is a failure. There are no horticulture books, tomatoes or spell material on the island. Worse still their boat splits in half out of the blue on the way back as if struck by lightning. Sir Carragher learns very quickly that being able to swim is not one of Sir Neville’s many talents as the other man splashes violently in a desperate bid to keep afloat. 

“Gareth, it’s okay” he says to try and calm Sir Neville before they both drown, “just trust me on this, yeah? Let go. I got you.” For once in his life and by some miracle Sir Neville complies and goes still as he lets Sir Carragher propel them both to the safety of the shore. They drag themselves out of the freezing water and lie on the rocky beach together, Sir Neville still holding onto him and Sir Carragher too reluctant to let go. Their pants pierce the too still air as they try and catch their breath and still their hearts.

“You,” Sir Neville says eventually, “you saved my life there Sir…Duncan. Thank you.” Sir Carragher’s heart skips a beat at the use of his first name. Sir Neville shifts his head and looks up at him with those big brown eyes of his, curious, wondering if he went a step too far. “I told you there was something wrong with this place,” Sir Carragher says in return, feigning indifference. But he digs his fingers deeper into Sir Neville’s hair at the same time, to say it’s more than alright. 

“Gareth” he says quietly then, probably because the lake is still messing with his mind. He likes how the Mancunian name rolls off his tongue now that they aren’t drowning. “Duncan” Sir Neville, _Gareth_ responds, tentative as though trying on a new spell for the first time and their gaze still unbroken. Sir Carragher brushes off a finger across Gareth’s lips, now too pale with the cold, just to see what would happen but Gareth leans in to the touch and only moves in closer.

So the day is mostly a failure in the end, what with the quest still being at square one and Scouse and Manc tomatoes alike still withering in their respective kingdoms. But for once, lying beside the fire with a soft and pliant Sir Neville asleep in his arms Sir Carragher finds that he really doesn’t mind all that much. 

They will for sure, figure it out tomorrow.


	3. vintage nt carraville + tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A retelling of the tea scene in the [your hair is so soft...for a scouser](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11295549?view_full_work=true) verse from Carra's POV. You can read it as a standalone heh all you need to know is that it's 1999, and the new England manager decided it was a good idea to room 'people who didn't have as much opportunity to socialize' together. Guess who Carra's roommate _had to_ be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been told that this is not how Weetabix works and I offer my most sincere apologies to any English readers and Weetabix fans who are mortally offended by the blatant misrepresentation of the facts contained herein.

Jamie has just put the kettle on when his roommate –his Manc roommate– walks in. His eyes, a rather nice shade of brown, like milk chocolate, widen to an almost comical extent when he notices the kettle. It is odd that the hotel room would have an electric stove and it must be even more jarring to return to the room only to find your roommate at the said stove with a full tea set.

Neville stands halfway into the room, his eyes darting from the kettle to the teapot to the cups Jamie put out and Jamie can see, he can see clear as day that Neville is dying to ask. Jamie just carries on with what he is doing though, cool as a cucumber, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. By God it’s fun to torture the Mancs.

Especially this particular asshole of a Manc with his pretty eyes and his strange intensity.

Eventually Neville trades his spot by the far side of the desk to the edge of his bed, but his attention never wavers from Jamie. Even with his back turned to Neville Jamie can still feel the man’s gaze on him and the hairs on the back of his neck stand on edge, against his will. He isn’t even that much into lads, with football and so many birds around to occupy his thoughts and it isn’t even something he thinks about most of the days but then Neville pays so much attention to everything going around and falls asleep with his mouth open and measures out cereal into his own bowl in the mornings with so much precision you’d think he was conducting a nuclear experiment and–. Well. His father would probably chuck another boot at him now, and rightfully so, if he saw Jamie lusting after a Manc like this.

“You give me funny looks for bringing my own Weetabix but it’s fine when you bring an entire tea set is it?”

Jamie grins to himself. He knew it. He knew Neville would crack.

“Mate,” he says, keeping his back turned to the Manc, “tea is our national beverage. Cereal is cereal. Bowls are definitely bowls. Same anywhere.”

He also didn’t so much bring the tea set as charmed the nice lady who works in the kitchen with Michael’s help and then borrowed some of Robbie’s tea leaves but Neville doesn’t need to know that.

“No it isn’t. I’ll point out that there is no Weetabix in this hotel but there is definitely tea.”

Neville sounds petulant. He is a stubborn man and Jamie has a sense that he wouldn’t have lasted very long had they lived in an age where duelling over one’s honor, or petty disagreements for that matter, was still considered socially acceptable.

He snorts at the image of Neville with pistol in hand, in stockings and sporting a large hat with a feather sticking out on top.

_How dare you call Weetabix just a cereal sir? Prepare to die on the count of three._

“I have just – never seen anyone so passionate about cereal before.” Jamie turns around only when he can trust himself to not to grin like an idiot and probably get punched in the face as a result. Neville looks a strange mix of offended and really hungry. It would be impolite, Jamie supposes, to brew tea in the room and not to offer his roommate any, even if his roommate happens to be an asshole and a Manc. His parents raised Jamie better than that.


	4. carraville + nostalgia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Also set in the [your hair is so soft...for a scouser](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11295549?view_full_work=true) verse though it takes place in current day. Inspired by the drabble in the previous chapter because apparently creating spinoffs to spinoffs is something I do.

The morning light filters in through the half drawn curtains. It reflects off the cream colored walls and the white sheets of the bed and fills the room with an almost other-worldly glow. And in the middle of it, entangled in the white sheets of is Gary, a lazy smile playing on his lips, his eyes fond and content as he looks up at Jamie. In the diffused light it seems to Jamie as though there are whole worlds contained in Gary’s brown eyes. Worlds of brilliant color and patterns and specks of gold. Worlds he could lose himself in without a second's thought.

His mind goes back all of a sudden to another room, in a dysfunctional hotel in a distant country and a stranger, a Manc, in the bed next to him, his hair tousled and his eyes gleaming perfectly brown in the morning light.

“God, I thought you were such an asshole back then,” he says, “an asshole of a Manc with pretty eyes.”

Gary sends him a quizzical look. In his defense that statement applies pretty well to quite a few points of their lives. Jamie just runs two reverent fingers over the ghost of the scar on Gary’s temple instead of saying what he’s thinking of in words.

_The beginning. Then._

Gary’s expression shifts from puzzled to playful as understanding dawns on his face. “You thought my eyes were pretty?” He is grinning up smugly at Jamie, but he also raises a hand to his face so that they end up with Jamie’s hand cupping Gary’s cheek, his fingers on the edge of the scar and Gary’s hand warm on top of his.

“For a Manc,” Jamie qualifies, “I thought your eyes were pretty for a Manc.”

It’s always been an inside joke between them, this, even in their early days back when Jamie didn’t realize he could love Liverpool and love Gary and not have one cancel the other out.

“And what do you think now?” Gary almost whispers the words and there is something in his voice, something in the open, and absolutely gorgeous look on his face that makes Jamie speak the truth, sentimental as it may be.

“That I’m a lucky bastard if we get to have this Gary. Today and tomorrow and..” He trails off but it’s no matter because soon Gary is pulling him down so his face is resting on Gary’s chest and Gary is enveloping him with his whole body, all limbs, and warmth and love.

In a few minutes they will have to clean themselves up – Jamie’s thighs where Gary’s come has almost dried off already feel sticky– put on their suits and head out. They have a busy day ahead, with Jamie co commentating the game and Gary on the pre-game and halftime shows. 

But for now they lie there in the soft light of the morning, breathing each other in, content.


	5. carraville (beville?) + you shouldn't even have been there!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me 5 minutes to dig this up on tumblr. God that website isn't user friendly / sensible or functional is it?

“It was awful,” Gary says with a shake of his head and sinks further into his chair, “Gerrard was there, Carragher, Fowler, Redknapp, McManaman was there, hell even Dirk bloody Kouijt was there. I don’t think Liverpool has this high a ratio of Scousers per house.” David only smiles from where he is standing in front of the stove, urging Gary on, amused. Fringes of his golden hair, now unstyled fall into his eyes. 

“Two beers and they all grow misty eyed and start waxing lyrical about Istanbul. Yeah it was a great game, but it was a decade ago, they didn’t win the league and Istanbul isn’t even that great of a city. I don’t see what the big deal is.” Gary sighs. He’s washed his hands five times since he made it out of the party but he still can’t shake the feeling of Scouse that has stuck to his clothes, to his skin. It’s awful. At least David was home and doesn’t look as though he particularly minds making scrambled eggs for Gary at 1 am. 

God bless whatever prompted the Scousers to throw the party in London instead of Liverpool.

“And then, and then,” he continues, and this is the worst part, “they sang You’ll Never Walk Alone to Fowler instead of happy birthday. And then they kept singing it, over and over.” 

This, Gary supposes, is what happens when you leave the cutting of the birthday cake to midnight when everyone is properly sloshed.

David throws his head back and laughs at that, before he comes to the table with Gary’s plate of eggs and a glass of water, muttering about how of course they’d sing YNWA as a birthday song.

“So did you join in?” he asks with a shit-eating grin and it’s Gary’s fault for talking about it in the first place really, because David will never let this go and he will probably ring up Ryan and tell him all about it too first thing in the morning.

“No!” A piece of egg goes flying out of Gary’s mouth at the insinuation. He is possibly still a bit more drunk than he thinks he is. “Maybe you would but some of us are proper Mancs you know, stayed and retired at the club and all of that.” 

Yup, he is still definitely drunk.

Shit.

“I–” Gary says, desperately wanting to will the words back into his mouth, “I didn’t mean to–” 

David cuts him off with a wave of his hand. “It’s fine, Gaz.” Maybe Gay is imagining it but his eyes look a bit sad in the dim light of the kitchen. “You shouldn’t have even been there!” he points out, his grin back in place. Gary feels grateful. “What exactly were you thinking going to Robbie Fowler’s birthday party in the first place?”

“Carra from Sky invited me,” he says in a quiet, quiet voice. He keeps his eyes squarely on the plate of eggs in front of him and doesn’t tell David about how lovely Carra looked in a simple dark blue polo shirt, carefree and comfortable in his element, laughing, talking to five people at once and making obscure inside jokes everyone else thought was hilarious. How hard he worked the entire night to weave Gary in into the conversations. He also doesn’t tell David, how yes, right at the very end he did almost join the off-key rendition of YNWA because Carra had looked at him instead of Fowler the entire time they sang, his expression open, his eyes soft, as though he was singing the song to Gary, even though that makes no sense. And how at the end Gary basically ran away from the party because if he stayed he’d do something exceedingly stupid like sing YNWA or put his arms around Carra’s neck and kiss him right then and there.


	6. asensio/dybala + hair pins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I told you I had random.

As an up and coming football star who played for the biggest club in the world you knew things about famous footballers who played for other teams whether you wanted to or not. Marco knew for example that Dybala’s raw talent was hard to match (even if he wasn’t good enough to beat Real Madrid, but then again so few were when push comes to show) and that his family had a Persian cat when he was growing up that Dybala loved more than the rest of his family combined. (Buffon had told this to Iker when they were both pretty sloshed, who had then passed it on to Sergio and then it was only a matter of time before the entire dressing room knew.) Anyway point was news and random bits of knowledge travelled through NTs and friends of friends, and it was normal, to be expected.

Marco never thought that he’d come to know however that Dybala carried a hair pin on his person at all times, ‘for emergencies’ and that he kind of dug the angry red bird in the dark vibe Dybala was giving off as he muttered about stupid Spaniards in the tight space of the closet and worked on the door. (For the record, it was only natural that Marco would be intrigued and follow when he saw the starlet of the Argentinian national team ducking through a random door completely out of the blue and it was not his fault that the door locked shut when he ran right into Dybala. Sergio had forgotten to mention that the man also had a habit of wandering into supply closets before games.)

“Got it!” Dybala shouted in triumph as he gave the hairpin one more twist in the lock and the door cracked open. Marco breathed a sigh of relief. He was pretty sure people were already out looking for them with only forty minutes to go before the start of the friendly, but they’d make it. They’d be alright.

“Man, I could kiss you right now!” Marco said with a hand on Dybala’s shoulder before giving his words the appropriate amount of thought and winced at the implication of what he said. This was all Sergio’s influence really, Marco used to have much much more self-restraint before. But it was a thing people said, right, something they said casually and not just when they thought I kind of dig you in blue and white and the furrow of your brow and the dexterous working of your–

Dybala whipped his head around and fixed Marco with a deep, penetrating gaze (wrong choice of words Marco, damnit stop it at once already) and a cocked eyebrow for one moment. The Argentinian was totally onto him, worse he’d probably think Marco locked them in the closet on purpose –which again not Marco’s fault Dybala was the one who wandered in the closet in the first place– and Marco would be ruined. He could already see the papers and his international career, his club–

“Yeah, alright. Meet me back here after the game.” Dybala sounded so casual one would think he was making plans to meet here and play Fifa with his mates after training.

Marco blinked to see if he heard Dybala right. His mouth possibly hung a little open.

“Fine.” Dybala rolled his eyes. “You just can’t wait can you? But just so that we are clear I’m doing this a favor to you and nothing else. And we gotta be quick because we’ll be skinned live, friendly or not if we are any later.”

With that he pushed Marco back into the closet, and man his hands felt good on Marco’s chest, and making sure to prop the door cracked open with a broom this time crushed their lips together.

This Marco most certainly did not know about the Argentinian.


	7. carraville + be my wife!

By the time they get together, Gary obviously has priors about what being with Jamie would entail. He didn’t spend all those hours daydreaming about Jamie and then rebuking himself for daydreaming about Jamie for no reason after all.

Just like Gary Jamie is a terrible cook and so most of their dinners together end up being takeout when Gary can’t convince one of his chef acquaintances (or Phil) to cook for them. They watch a lot of football together, like they did before, except now Gary gets to snuggle with Jamie, his head safe and warm on Jamie’s chest as they analyze the game and yell at the TV in turns. There is some friction too, as is to be expected. Jamie tucks in the corners of the bedsheets wrong. Gary sucks at telling Jamie when something is bothering him. It takes time to make space for someone in a life you mostly crafted to lead by yourself.

One thing however takes Gary completely by surprise. He knew Jamie would have quirks, those little bits of his personality he doesn’t show to even reasonably close friends. Just—

Gary’s never imagined that talking in his sleep would be one of them. It startles the Gary the first time it happens. Takes his sleep-addled brain a few seconds to realize that everything is fine and that Jamie is still asleep. He drags the covers they kicked off the bed back over them and listens to Jamie mumble nonsense about bats as he waits for his heart rate to go back to normal.

He almost brings it up in the morning but something he can’t quite put his finger on stops him. So Gary says nothing and fights Jamie over the last piece of toast instead.

Slowly they settle into a rhythm measured in trips to London and late-night conversations and wine.

In addition to the live games during the day Jamie commentates on football in his sleep, mostly vintage Liverpool, but United once or twice too. He wakes Gary up more often than not – Gary has always been a light sleeper, but especially so since he retired. He supposes he could get earplugs or something, but he doesn’t like sleeping with _stuff_ in his ears. Besides then he wouldn’t be awake to see the many expressions that pass through Jamie’s face as Liverpool takes a bad shot, or that one time, when Gary scores a goal (“oh what a screamer from Gary Neville ladies and gentlemen; I cannot believe me eyes. Evil prevails as United lead 2-1 but what a goal”). They have a terrible habit of kicking off the covers too and someone needs to be awake to throw the duvet back over them in the winter.

 

“Hmm mphm.”

Gary half opens an eye and draws Jamie in closer on instinct so that his head is lying squarely on Gary’s chest. Jamie comes willingly. In the quiet of the night, he feels wonderful in Gary’s arms. Every muscle in his body at ease, his skin warm where it’s pressed against Gary’s.

“What’s that Jamie?”

“I said” Jamie mumbles. He speaks slowly and his words slur. “Gary Alexander Neville, will you be my wife?” He sounds so serious Gary can’t help but let out a snort.

“Afraid I can’t, love.” He brushes his hand through Jamie’s short hair.

“Why not?” It comes out as a whine and Jamie sounds so heartbroken Gary wishes he had the mind to record the whole thing. It would be hilarious in the morning.

“My mum’s said I look terrible in a wedding gown. Me tits are too small you see.”

“Well your mother’s wrong.” Jamie declares. “I think you’d look excellent in a gown.” He pumps his fist on the bed for extra effect and wakes himself up in the process. He lifts his head from Gary’s chest and blinks up at Gary, confused.

“Why are you laughing?”

Gary gives him a small peck on the forehead (far too sentimental for daylight hours, but the night carries some leeway with it) and tells him to go back to sleep. He strokes Jamie’s hair until Jamie’s breath evens out again, and chuckles quietly to himself.

If he doesn’t immediately go to sleep and lets his mind wander; if he imagines (Gary in a gown now that’s a thought) but beyond that, if he imagines…mornings and nights and growing old…Well. Jamie’s fast asleep and there is no one there to see the quiet smile that tugs at Gary’s lips.


	8. Fellaini, Mourinho and passive aggression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team bottles yet another game. Mourinho is not pleased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay this drabble has a story and I feel the need to explain myself because it's the most crack I've written. 
> 
> I was liveblogging the United vs. West Brom game (from this past April) on tumblr and at some point the camera cut to Mourinho sulking on the sidelines, but I mean positively sulking. I have a very passive aggressive mother so I knew the look. I pointed it out and people said we'd read that fic tbh and voila cue to me using my mother as inspiration to write Mou. And it's from Fellaini's POV because who else. I still don't know how this drabble actually happened.
> 
> Arsenal indeed did not win the next day's game against City.

The mood in the dressing room was naturally subdued after they’d gone and bottled yet another game. Rashford was sitting hunched in over himself, fists clenched, shaking his head ever so slightly as if he couldn’t believe the result – how none of their 18 shots had gone in.

Marouane wanted to point out that Arsenal had lost 3-1 to this very team just a couple of weeks ago, and wasn’t a goalless draw still infinitely better than that? And he might have said something too, maybe something rather inspiring like how there was no way Arsenal was going to win against City and so they were safe after all but the door burst open before he could. Instantly a deadly quiet fell upon the dressing room as all eyes turned to the man now standing at the entrance, with a look of vast disappointment in his eyes. Even Marouane felt his heart sink with guilt at having let down his de facto uncle / coach. Mourinho had given so much to the team, sacrificed so much (and whether they were safe in the 5th place or not) he deserved better.

“I have given up so much for this team, sacrificed for all of you and this is the treatment I get.” Mourinho said quietly, his lower lip protruding forward, “truly you care more about that bench you sit on than you do for me.”

“Well, Arsenal—“ Wayne started, but Mourinho cut him off.

“I don’t care about what others do, Wayne. I haven’t toiled and bled for Arsenal now have I?” Mourinho shook his head. “No, I am stuck with you lot and I wish you’d do for me a tenth of what I do for you.” Here he looked straight at Marouane, and Marouane felt as though he was standing naked before the penetrating gaze of his coach. “If you loved me,” he said, voice heavy with hurt, “you’d have converted at least one of your 18 shots, but clearly…”

“We do love you, coach.” Mikhi interjected.

“No,” he was still looking at Marouane and Marouane’s heart was breaking into a thousand pieces, “it’s just Zlatan. Thank the Lord he is back next week to save me from an early death.”

There was nothing Marouane could say to that. He stood there, trying to fight back the tears threatening to fill his eyes and wished that he too could be as good as Ibrahimovic, as worthy of Mourinho’s love, just for once.


	9. Michael Carrick/David de Gea + please don't leave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael doesn't want David to leave. David thought they could avoid this conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you I had random, but the hugs between these two are very tender okay? I got this as a tumblr prompt request and had to do a backflip to avoid the angst.

“Please don’t leave…” David freezes where he is as he absorbs Michael’s words. It was inevitable, he supposes, rumors travel fast and they were perhaps always hurtling towards this point since the moment they decided to give a name to what they are.

“Babe.” David clasps his hands around Michael’s waist and tries to see if he can distract his boyfriend with a kiss, just long enough so that he can duck out off the house and at least postpone the conversation they will inevitably have to have. Michael doesn’t protest. He leans into the touch and kisses David back, nice and slow – cards a hand through David’s gelled hair. By the time they break apart, David is wondering whether to postpone his plans and to take it to the bedroom, the shower or at the very least the couch.

He tugs on Michael’s hand and gives him his best bedroom eyes so they focus on important things –like how sinful Michael’s kiss swollen lips look right now– and stay away from certain conversations that will only bring heartache and strife.

Michael runs a hand over his jawbone and stops with his thumb brushing across David’s lips. A shiver runs through David’s entire body at the contact. “Yes,” Michael says, the word a promise on his beautiful lips, “yes, but only after you do the dishes. I’m serious David.”

David can feel his heart sink. He was this close surviving the encounter in one piece.

He goes for Michael’s lips again to see if the older man can be distracted yet, because it’s worked in the past, but it’s to no avail.  
“You won’t seduce me into letting you run away without doing your share of the chores, love” Michael says as he draws away from David with a smile all too soon. “It’s not that bad, is it. Come on I’ll help dry and it will take twenty minutes at most. It’ll fun.”  
David lets out a soft whine as he allows Michael to lead him to the kitchen by hand, all for the wrong reasons (the things they could have been doing at that kitchen counter.)

“Really,” Michael is saying, as he hands David the dishwashing fluid “I have never seen anyone as averse to or dramatic about housework as you are–”

“Did Juan tell you about starting me on the right foot or–” David looks at the pile of soaking dishes, dishes he’s promised to wash yesterday morning, now only partly visible in the cloudy (and gross) water, with something akin to horror. There is a rumor going around in the dressing room that if you don’t make David do his share of the chores from the get go of any relationship he will never lift a fork going forward. (This rumor is mostly true, though that one time David had found someone through an app on his phone to come to the house and lift the forks for him, so.)

Michael averts his eyes. Michael has the worst poker face known to mankind since at least fire was invented. It was definitely Juan.  
Michael changes the subject with the subtlety of the Arsenal fans flying a Wenger Out banner on top of the stadium. David is tackling Juan, and hard, at the next training session for this for sure.

“I mean how is it easier for us to talk about Madrid than whose turn it is to do laundry? Don’t you think it should be the other way around?”

As he washes leftover soggy eggs from yet another plate, the residue slimy in his quite valuable hands, David really doesn’t think so.


End file.
